“Neuve Chapelle” was reached in an hour, and the smart maid-servant who answered their ring showed some signs of surprise at the number of the visitors. The Colonel evidently didn’t have many friends who called upon him of mornings. Goodall took upon himself the post of spokesman. “My compliments to Colonel Leach-Fletcher,” he said, “and will you please tell him that Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard, would like to see him for a moment or two?” The maid-servant looked scared and her rosy cheeks whitened a trifle. “Will you please step inside, I’ll tell my master.” An interval of a few moments saw them ushered into what was evidently the lounge. It was altogether a charming room, furnished in irreproachable taste. A man in the early sixties was standing in the center of the room—facing them as they entered. Colonel Leach-Fletcher was a man of fine physique——round about five feet ten and weighing as far as Anthony could judge from a quick glance, somewhere in the region of fourteen stone. His manner was very decisive—some people might have described it as curt. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said rather abruptly. “I understand you wish to see me—about poor Stewart I presume?” Goodall bowed. “These gentlemen are Mr. Anthony Bathurst and Mr. Peter Daventry—they represent Mr. Charles Stewart’s interests.” Colonel Leach-Fletcher acknowledged the introduction with a quick inclination of the head—and a rather cavalier one, at that. “I am ready to tell you anything you think necessary—but really, I’m afraid you will find it of small consequence—sit down, gentlemen!” The Colonel took up his position in front of the mantelpiece as his self-invited guests accepted his invitation. “In the first place, Colonel,” said Goodall, opening the interview, “I am informed that you dined with the murdered man on the evening of the murder, and left Assynton Lodge somewhere about ten o’clock.” Goodall looked up for the Colonel’s corroboration. It came immediately. “Quite correct!” Goodall waited to see if the Colonel purposed adding anything to his reply, but the Colonel didn’t—he waited for Goodall. “Was Mr. Stewart in normally good spirits during the evening, Colonel?” Colonel Leach-Fletcher twirled his white moustache. Then he thrust his two hands deep into his trouser-pockets and stood still. “Look here, Inspector—what name did you say—Goodall?—look here, Inspector Goodall—I’m utterly opposed to beating about the bush, so I’ll tell you straight to your face without any embroidery that I hate your infernal trade and all its tricks and practices. But I’m a man that realizes the exigencies of duty—so I’ll waive my personal inclinations that prompt me to send you to the Devil—and I’ll answer your question—even though I feel within me that I’m betraying a dead man’s confidence. Mr. Stewart was _not_ exactly in his ordinary cheerful frame of mind on the evening in question.” “H’m,” said Goodall, “perhaps you will explain more fully.”